


Collection of FMA Drabbles

by taskemus (bossy)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist (Anime 2003), Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Gen, M/M, and there's more to come!, this is all from livejournal circa 2005
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 16:39:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18265262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bossy/pseuds/taskemus
Summary: Warning for being written in the POV of a Very Bad Person. I don't condone anything Hakuro did, I'm just playing in this sandbox.





	1. Death (or, Greed and Kimbley talk eternal life)

“I thought you wanted eternal life,” Kimbley says when Greed unties him, and the homunculus shoots him a look that tells him he has said too much.

It surprises him when Greed actually answers, therefore, after pushing his hair back with the sweat that has accumulated on his forehead. “I did. But I don’t anymore.” 

There are four thick black bracelets on each of the man’s wrists, Kimbley notices, and they move slightly when his hands undo Kimbley’s chains, mirroring their motions soundlessly.   
His eyes are still glinting with mischievous malice as he stands back to make room for Kimbley to stand up. He does, confidently taking a step forward when he sees that the homunculus isn’t about to hurt him.

“Why not?”

Greed snorts. “Too many people have it now. Look at Alphonse Elric, look at half the people from lab 5. They have to live forever, with only one small chance that they might die.” He walks further away, towards the door, “Look at me, Kimbley. Look at all of us homunculi. We can die, but it’s more likely that we’ll keep living. We will keep living for longer than the humans and that isn’t something that I want.”

Kimbley looks at him, watching the sun glint in his eyes from the window. The wall of the Devil’s Nest is made of concrete and metal, cracked and stained, and Kimbley can see the two substances reflected evenly in his red eyes and strong, smooth skin. Greed’s skin may be old, but is neither cracked nor stained, and never will be. 

“I thought you wanted everything,” he says, after a while, and Greed looks directly into his eyes with a sharp-toothed grin.

“Death is everything. If I lived forever, I’d always be desiring death.”

“But not many people have the chance to live forever,” Kimbley says, and to himself he makes perfect sense. “I don’t understand you. Everyone dies, and you, who could attach your soul to something with the Philosopher’s Stone and have the chance to live forever, won’t?” He steps closer to Greed, palms out in a futile threat, and mirrors his grin.

“I’d rather be human now so I would have something more precious – a shorter life, a more desirable life. I want to see my last sunset, my last dying human, blood-covered at the brink of death, screaming for me to free it. I want to be human so I can feel my skin change into a shell for one last time, to feel the power surge in me and then leave me weak and powerless and completely sacred.” Greed says, speaking slowly, and opens the door.

The red tattoo on his hand is accentuated beside the black door, and when Kimbley passes by he presses the palm of his left hand onto the back of Greed’s, ouroboros against array. Kimbley thinks he sees the man’s muscles tense for a second, and he caresses the hand dangerously. Greed looks at him, directly into his eyes, and reaches a finger up to run against the palm of Kimbley’s hand, the slight touch making his array blaze blue with power. It throbs, beating like a miniature heart, and Kimbley needs to press his palm down to Greed’s hand, needs to feel the explosion erupt in his ears, which are already ringing in expectation. He steps forward, a tiny step, and then Greed’s skin tightens, loosens, turns hard, black, and rough.

He casts his eyes around, both of his arrays expanded to their full potential, full of and rage and want and power, and Kimbley lets it all go as soon as he touches the woman’s checkered blouse. She explodes beautifully, all blood and dust and shards of flesh, and the air rushes against his face before swirling towards the sky.

Greed is still standing by the door, grinning his fearless grin.

“What?” Kimbley asks, feeling the homunculus’ eyes on him, and rests his back against the door.

“When I die, Kimbley, you’ll be the one to kill me.”

He comes closer, wraps his arms around Kimbley’s neck, and kisses him.


	2. Annihilation (or, Hughes and Roy have a tough conversation)

Maes stares at Roy, pushes his glasses up his nose, and then stares some more. There is probably something he should be doing, somewhere he should be going, but his mind has fogged up suddenly, and he can only stand back and watch as it all jolts away from him. He’s slipping away from reality, and he tries to blink, to make sure that this isn’t a nightmare, but all he can do is stare at the man in front of him.

“What?”

Suddenly he’s dizzy and he feels like he’s going to throw up, but he ignores the feeling and keeps on staring. Roy is sitting smugly at his desk, tapping his pen ominously to the wood.

“Surprised I figured you out?” the man asks, and his smile widens. It is not a smile that Maes likes.

“...What?”

He can’t grip the reality of it, can’t get his mouth to form anything more than this one word, over and over. He knows that he has spoken but he doesn’t hear his voice for an eternity, as if he is a film and the sound doesn’t synch up with the images.

“You were getting annoying, too. I don’t need to hear that you love me twelve times an hour, Maes. If that were even true, why would you assault me with baby pictures?” There is a tinge of sarcasm in Roy’s voice, and Maes doesn’t like that either.

“No,” Maes says, and his voice sounds light and foreign to his ears, which are ringing shrilly, sounding like high pitched birds, cicadas. He takes a deep breath. “Roy, listen to me. I can explain things to Gracia –”

“You won’t ever change, Maes. If I know one thing about you any more it’s that you love your wife and your daughter,” Roy says, still smirking, and Maes can feel something inside of him shaking, “and you’re a liar.”

Maes doesn’t point out that that was two things, because Roy is right and that is giving him an odd, sinking feeling. The ringing in his ears increases, sounding like machinery now, like little aliens chattering to each other.

He doesn’t like this conversation; he’d like to have it later, once he had thought it all over and come up with something smart to say. Some other time when he had pulled himself together, when he could talk some sense into Roy. As it is his mouth is dry and he feels weak, useless, defeated. His hands are shaking, like frightened mice, and his hands never shake. I’m turning into Roy, he thinks, and if I’m Roy, he’s me. Maes stares at Roy, at himself, with increasing disbelief.

“I don’t want to have every second of my life devoted to you,” Roy continues. “I’m not going to burden myself and help you; it should be the other way around.” Roy lifts his head and his two black eyes burn into Maes’. “I don’t want anything to do with you. Leave.”

Maes knows these words, he realizes, because he has thought them before, once upon a time. One rare occasion when he had let the stress empower him, one moment he has felt eternally guilty for.

Maes can’t protest any longer, even though the anger is welling up inside of him, building and fuming and crashing like waves against a cliff.

He retreats into his office wordlessly to read up on the Ishbalian Civil Conflict, losing himself in the words but not really comprehending them. Maes forces himself to concentrate, to do anything but think of Roy.

Behind him, Envy gets up from Roy’s desk, and in an instant opens the window and jumps out, smirking triumphantly.


	3. Your Photograph (or, more Hughes/Roy angst)

“Elicia! You missed your daddy, didn’t you? I know I missed you! Honey, do you see how much she’s grown? Doesn’t she just get more adorable every day?”

Hughes rocks his daughter in his arms, stopping only to give her a quick kiss on her forehead. Gracia yells out an answer from the kitchen and Hughes walks over and puts an arm around her.

Elicia and Gracia. They’re his family, what he boasts about to everyone he knows. In fact, they’re so dear to him that he has a snapshot of them, in his left pocket.

Today, Hughes doesn’t reach into his left pocket but his right.

“Honey, look! Hasn’t he changed so much?”

His wife peers down at the grainy picture, still idly stirring the stew that she’s cooking for dinner.

“Changed? I haven’t seen that picture in years! Is that really Roy Mustang?” she says, squinting.

“That’s right - it’s all I have. Nice to see him wear something other than his uniform, don’t you think?” Hughes grins and steals the wooden spoon from her hands, seeing as she isn’t stirring anymore. Irritatedly, she jerks it back.

“Why are you still carrying that dirty old thing around with you? Ask the guy for a new photograph, won’t you? I can barely make this one out.”

Gracia keeps squinting in disbelief for another second, and then it’s all forgotten to her as she realizes the meat might be a tad overcooked. She hasn’t noticed that at her words Hughes’ grin has subsided and he has walked back out into the living room.

There will never be another photograph. Roy would never let it happen - he’s told Hughes so explicitly.

Roy has changed. Hughes tries to grasp that, but it’s a foreign concept.

“Things are different now, Maes. I don’t have time to chase after these imaginary butterflies, get lost in the sea of young ignorant love.”

In the photograph, Roy is youthful, beautiful, carefree. He’s smiling a genuine smile, one smooth sleek arm slung around his shoulder, the other reaching up to touch Hughes on the cheek. It’s a gentle, innocent touch, but Hughes knows that with it Roy is pouring his heart out to Hughes.

“I’m not the same anymore, and you’re not either. We’re beyond this.”

Now, Roy’s eyes are darker, clouded with deceit and power, his gaze disdainful and rock hard. It’s a gaze that’s seen blood, murder, all the evils of the world, one with no room left for compassion.

Today, he would stand stiffly for a photograph.

There are times when Hughes tries to bring out the good in Roy’s heart. He doesn’t care about himself anymore - there’s Gracia now, after all. Hughes would throw a party if he saw Roy give a casual glance to even one of the homunculi! Although lately he’s been pushing for Hawkeye, since they’re such good friends already. A wife would really do the man good, Hughes thinks.

“Anyone, just so he’s happy. Roy needs more happiness in his life,” he muses aloud, sighing.

“Hm?” The voice is Gracia’s, from the kitchen still. “Sorry, didn’t catch that. Want to come in here and give me a hand with the potatoes? You know you’re better than me at peeling them.”

“In a second, okay? Elicia just spit up on my shirt.”

In reality, she’s asleep, but for some reason, there’s no guilt this time at lying. Normally he would feel it creeping up his throat like a toxic poison or an ounce of sickly vomit, especially if it was about his daughter, but today there’s nothing.

It’s Roy, Hughes thinks. Roy has always emitted some sort of unknown holiness, a reason for anything to be right.

Roy. Even though Hughes has always been trying to set him up with others, secretly he still wishes that it was him who had such power over the Lieutenant Colonel, him who could curb the man’s fears with just a smile. Him who Roy could depend on to hand him over the world.

Roy Mustang is just too stubborn now, Hughes thinks. There is no way that he could open up, fully, to anyone.

The photograph is still in his hand, and Hughes takes a good long look at it. What he really wants is the old Roy, the one that smiled and grinned and had an optimistic view of the world. The one that he knows is now long dead.

He hugs the photograph to his chest for one last second before tearing it in half down the fold in the middle, so quickly that there’s no time for second thoughts.

The new Roy doesn’t need his affection, or anyone else’s for that matter. He is a different man now. Hughes is finally ready to accept that.

Maybe he doesn’t need the false comfort of a photograph any longer.

Maybe when it’s gone he’ll stop holding onto one small piece of reality, of his past, and begin to live in the present again.

Maybe it’s time to move on.


	4. Listen (or, you know my type, more Hughes/Roy angst)

Roy Mustang is sitting in his office, humming slightly, leafing through his copy of the Central Times. He glances up as Maes Hughes steps backwards into the shadows outside of his door.

“Lieutenant Hawkeye? Is that you?”

Oops. He’s been spotted. That’s never good for someone who is in Investigations.

“It’s just me.” Maes says, mentally cursing himself. But didn’t he want to talk to Roy again, anyway?

“Maes. Come in,” Roy says easily, setting the newspaper down

Once he’s inside, Roy’s eyes never leave his face. “What is it?”

Maes shakes his head. There has to be an easier way to do this, but despite what others have said, Maes isn’t one of those people that is overflowing with courage. He’ll have to be a little more blunt this time. “I was watching you from the other side of the door.”

“Hm? Don’t people normally do that before they enter a room? What is it really, Maes?” Roy says, laughing slightly... but not nervously. He doesn’t have any idea, Maes thinks hopelessly.

“I really like you, Roy. That’s what I’m here to talk about.”

There’s a flicker of – something – and then Roy’s gaze is once again blank. “Maes, you don’t have to convince me. I understand, and I appreciate your kindness.”

“Roy -” Maes begins, beginning to clench his fist. “I know you understand!” He doesn’t want to say it, and his steel gaze begs Roy to say something, to understand.

He remains silent, cocking his head to the side.

“I love you, Roy.”

Roy never falters, never changes his expression. “And you will push me to the top. Thank you.”

Roy still doesn’t understand. Or is it that he understands and yet doesn’t want to listen? Does it horrify him so much that he thinks if he ignores it it will disappear?

Roy salutes him, and Maes slowly closes the door behind him. For once, Maes has no one left to turn to about his problems.

He is ebullient when that night he is introduced to Gracia, who always listens.


	5. Automail (or, and now for some Winry/Sheska)

When Pinako and Winry find her, Sheska is curled up by the river, covered in blood and so close to the water that it is a violent shade of crimson. Her brown hair is soaked and matted to her face, waves continuously washing over her body. She shivers, closing her eyes and clenching her hands into fists. There are tears on her cheeks and though she isn’t crying anymore, she is shaking.

Winry doesn’t ask any questions, just holds her for a second and then lets go, so that she can pick the other girl up and carry her back inside. Pinako, lagging behind, glares down into the forest path, and glimpses a flash of bright blue and black. 

“I knew you shouldn’t have trusted that Mustang character,” Pinako says, once the three are back inside. Sheska is sitting in a chair by the fire, slumped over and lifeless. She smiles, once, at Winry, who is rummaging through her desk drawers, gathering screws and nails and metal pieces.

“You’re lucky we live so close,” Pinako says again, walking over to Sheska. “Anywhere else, you could have died without any legs. The wolves might have eaten you. And if anyone else found you, you’d have to pay for the automail.” She smiles.

“You two sure are talkative today.” When Pinako still doesn’t get a reply, she lights a cigar and stands back against the wall to watch the procedure.

Winry is finished assembling the pieces, and with nimble fingers she lifts up what is left of Sheska’s right leg and begins to attach the automail. Sheska is still shivering, even though the room is warm, and she winces when Winry begins the process. Pinako would help, but she knows this means something to Winry, even if Winry doesn’t yet know it herself. Pinako is  
everything but blind.

A good twelve hours later, Pinako is still smoking by the wall, watching but not speaking. Winry is covered in grease and sweat, and her weakening fingers drop the wrench that she is holding to the floor with a loud metal clank as she sighs in defeat. 

Sheska is smiling again, sitting up straight in her chair, and she has stopped shivering. The color is back in her cheeks, and as she opens her mouth to speak, Pinako watches Winry kiss her.

Smiling, and still smoking, she walks outside to watch the sunrise.


	6. Forbidden (or, 100 words of Winry/Sloth/Sheska)

Tapping into Juliet Douglas’ phone line had invoked a reverent fear of the secretary. Fascinated by their alien, Winry and Sheska crouched outside of the Fuhrer’s office, hearts beating faster because they were spying, could easily be discovered.  
Neither of them could deny her beauty, sitting with her chestnut hair falling elegantly over her face. Fingers curled around the phone’s receiver, every movement graceful. The only woman besides Winry who could make Sheska’s breath hitch, make Winry herself forget her discomfort at wearing Sheska’s uniform.  
They didn’t notice the other woman’s shadow before her claws had already punctured their skin.


	7. The Wall (or, even more Hughes/Roy angst)

His coffee is cold, the same coffee from last night – a world away, and yet he can see its traces in the mug, sitting on the kitchen counter, the barest hint in the air and the dust that someone else was here, once upon a time.

It’s only half a cup, with milk and sugar in it already – Hughes normally prefers it black, but Roy insists on adding milk – and he picks it up and sips from the red mug, the smell of Roy ingrained into the cold liquid. Slowly, because when he finishes the cup everything that is left of (this side of) Roy will be gone, a distant dream.

And it’s funny how Roy himself can create and manipulate fire and yet his coffee was able to become so cold, listless. Hughes watches a few particles of dust float around in the blinding stripes of light passing through the windowshade, and entertains the thought of heating the coffee up, of pretending that nothing is gone.

But the light itself reminds him that this is morning, not night, that he is alone in his house and that Gracia will be home from her trip soon. That he will not walk back into his bedroom and find Roy, looking none less out of place than Gracia amidst Hughes’ blue cotton bedsheets.

His phone rings, once, shrilly, and there is such a silence that Hughes thinks whoever it is must have hung up. But it rings again and he makes his way over, lifts up the black reciever, “Hello?” 

There is something tired in his own voice that makes him wince and wish he hadn’t spoken. He can hear the breathing on the other end and knows immediately – Roy – and he presses the phone to his ear and closes his eyes and for one second Roy is here with him.

“Hughes?” His last name, but he can’t erase last night’s heavy whispers from his mind, Maes, “They’re moving me to East. I thought you’d want to know.” Maes, please.

And something in Roy’s voice is amused about this, is challenging him to do something, anything, but Hughes finds his voice lost, and odd sensation, and he closes his eyes and swallows once and opens them again, and even though he would never want Roy to see him like this he still curses the barrier between them, the force that is pulling them apart.

“Good luck.”


	8. Human (or, some Dante and Homunculi gen)

“Lust,” he whines, from the corner, drawing out the word as long as he can (like a spoiled child, she thinks), and Dante can’t tell if he’s asking a question or merely wanting.

“You’re not Greed,” she tells him, annoyedly, eyes flickering over his darkened form, and he jerks closer and then back, further away — like an animal, suspicious. It’s a pity, really, that his brain wasn’t built for malice and wickedness, cunning schemes of infiltration and betrayal and death, but just this, this nothingness of sorrow and wasted tenderness. 

Some people aren’t meant for love.

But at least he’s useful (he kills them, doesn’t he? He kills them and eats them and destroys the evidence) and so she sighs and lets his body shake in the corner, “Lust?” And this is definitely a question, a call – louder, this time, as if he expects her to hear him, to come running.

And, Dante realizes, without Lust, Gluttony is nothing.

He stands back against the wall, helpless, eyes darting around the room (not like a lizard’s – not like Envy or Greed’s eyes – but like a mouse, casting its eyes around for potential danger), and whimpering slightly, the index finger of his right hand in his mouth. 

“Lust?”

“She’s not coming,” Dante tells him, walking over. “You can stop making that noise.”

Envy snorts from the other side of the room; “That’s right. She’s never coming. She’s _dead_. Shut up.”

She will never give them the Philosopher’s Stone, because that would ruin them more than they are already ruined – would cover them in the filth of humanity. The problem with homunculi is that they are too human – and that is, and always will be, their downfall.

She doesn’t know how she didn’t see it before.


	9. House on the Roof (or, Havoc and Scar give this fic its M rating)

Warm, dark hands on his chest and lips on his – Scar's red volcanic eyes still open and staring into Havoc's own (a curious, disdainful gaze – "You're not going to run from me?" he asks, moving away, and Havoc inhales sharply and shakes his head, no) and Havoc can hear the even marching of feet behind him. He turns to look but the sound weakens, becomes softer, quieter, and he looks back at the Ishbalian in front of him (the alchemist killer, the danger he has been warned of countless times) and he can't help the sinking feeling in his stomach when he remembers standing at the edge of a destroyed street and swearing that the scarred man would be killed. And he's torn between "they'll kill me if they find out" and "I'm sorry about that, I didn't know what you were like" – and Scar's lips are tainted with the blood of Basque Gran as they kiss again.

He can't help flinching a little as that arm – the arm - wraps around his back (it could all be a ruse, Havoc could be next). But there is no watch in his pocket, just a packet of cigarettes, and his breath is heavy and loud.

"This won't happen again," Scar warns him, "Don't think I'm stupid. You're part of the military, and the military doesn't have anything good in store for me."

And then Havoc shakes his head again – "No," and pulls Scar in for another kiss, right out here in the open, in an alley that anyone could stumble upon, and Scar turns to him, right hand slipping beneath the waistline of Havoc's pants (and he isn't afraid of the markings anymore, beautifully tattooed) – "No?" and the hint of a morbid smile touches Scar's lips, as if he has caught hold of some joke in Havoc's words that Havoc himself wasn't aware of.

"The military is stupider than I thought," Scar continues, and Havoc kisses him to make him stop talking, thrusts against the warmth of his hands, and when it is over Scar still has that odd look on his face.

Scar's shirt is torn and bleeding, and the Ishbalian eyes it for a minute but doesn't pick it up. Havoc lights a cigarette and leans back against the stone wall.

"It was a nice dream," Scar says, catching Havoc's gaze for a moment (blood-red eyes) and there are a million questions Havoc would like to ask but doesn't – he doesn't dare to even move.

There are geese flying overhead.

The murmur of voices breaks the peace, footsteps coming closer this time, "Lieutenant?"

Havoc looks over and Scar disappears into the greying sky, his feet making barely any noise upon the dusty ground. It's Colonel Mustang, fingers poised to snap, ignoring the tentative patter of the slow, light rain.

"He was here," Havoc says, in response to the question in Mustang's eyes, motioning to the shirt on the ground, "but we won't see him again."


	10. The Sky Has Claws (or, Hakuro sees Rose again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for being written in the POV of a Very Bad Person. I don't condone anything Hakuro did, I'm just playing in this sandbox.

It’s always summer in the east; there are twelve unbearable months of sweat-drenched uniforms, of air so thick that the mere act of walking resembles more slogging through a murky, chest-deep bog than anything else. Today is no exception, especially here in the shadeless market at noon, the time when the heat and sun are most overwhelming. General Hakuro is sorely tempted to unbutton his uniform jacket, like many of the privates are prone to do (and even some of the more lax sergeants), but Hakuro isn’t like them – he has pride. His uniform is blue; he is from Amestris (Amestris that made peace with Drachma in the Drachman Revolution of 1868, Amestris that had the force to overpower the Ishbalians in the Ishbalian Civil Conflict). The last thing Hakuro wants to do is to abuse his authority, to spit on the graves of his forefathers, and so he keeps his uniform buttoned and holds his head up high as he walks – the military has to uphold its image.

Endless blurs of people, wafting and spinning and stretched out in the heat, reduced to patches of light blue, red, orange. Voices floating into his ears with words that he doesn’t have the strength to distinguish, and he half-closes his eyes as he turns the street corner and comes face to face with the sun, so overly bright that it practically burns his eyes. He can feel his shirt sticking to his back, and an uncomfortable pool of sweat around his neck, which he rubs with his hand for a moment – the first thing he will do when he is released at 4:30 will be to take a shower. But there is paperwork waiting for him when he returns, along with the promise of a meeting (with the Fuhrer, no less, and a few of the generals from Central), and Hakuro, being one of the military’s most prominent strategists, will be lucky if he doesn’t have to stay overtime.

The cry of a hawk overhead, mixing in with the jumbled voices of anxious shoppers, street vendors, women pushing baby carriages.

A red shawl with an intricate black paisley design, and the woman who is wearing it is dark-skinned, with wide violet eyes, a tentative half-smile, and brown hair that falls into her face.

Everything comes back into focus – the sunlight is more defined, less meandering, blurry. She has turned her head and is walking away, in the direction Hakuro just came from – he turns and follows her (and he’s aware that it might not be the same woman, that it could be someone else), keeping his eyes on the red shawl in a sea of people who are constantly shifting and moving. An adolescent boy zigzags past him, running wildly, and for a second he loses sight of her – but then she stops at one of the stalls and picks up an orange, holds it up to the light and examines it. The way your wife shops for fruit, a little voice nags at Hakuro, but he pushes the words out of his head and walks up to her, glad for the relative shade under the vendor’s stall.

There is a baby in her arms.

And suddenly Hakuro doesn’t feel quite so safe anymore – it would certainly be a problem if the child looked like him, if when he grew older it was obvious who his father was. Ishbalians, contrary to popular belief, aren’t stupid – they can be deviously cunning at times, and Hakuro isn’t blind to the threat that this baby poses.

He shouldn’t be caught here even looking at this child, at the woman whose life he spared (even though she had been thoroughly foolish and didn’t seem to deserve her own life then, much less that of a child).

But somehow, he can’t take his gaze away, even when she spots him out of the corner of her vision and turns to look at him with fearful eyes – there is a moment of recognition and then a sharp gasp, the sound of the orange hitting the ground dully, and the swish of her thin coat as she turns away and runs, glancing back morbidly, worriedly, every few seconds.

“Wait!” he calls out, and she stops dead, as if frozen, and turns back to face him (and he didn’t really think that she would stop when she seems so weak, fragile, broken, already – as if she has lost the will to live, he thinks).

He hadn’t really thought about what he would say, and he clears his throat once as she looks at him expectantly.

“I – Fancy meeting you here,” he says weakly, conscious of the throng of people pushing past him as he stands in the middle of the street.

She opens her mouth but no words come out (and he was wrong. She isn’t broken – she is about to break, to shatter beautifully), and she looks at him with a gaze that isn’t half as strong as he remembered – but filled now with a different kind of power – and finally she averts her eyes and looks down.

“Is this yours?” he asks, motioning to the baby (whose skin is more tan than white, he is pleased to note, and who does not seem to resemble him in the least). She nods helplessly, peering once over her shoulder, and Hakuro has the sense that she is about to take off and fly away suddenly, like an alarmed dove.

The baby’s eyes are dark – a deep, solid, brown, like his, in place of the woman’s eyes, which are liquid and purple.

There is terror woven into her face as he reaches out his arms – she flinches, but the baby is warm, and he can feel its beating heart as he holds it here in his arms for one heat-stained second.

And, closing his eyes, he can almost pretend – until the child cries out for its mother and the noise of the people on the street filters back into his ears.

He hands it back to her, and with one last glance at him she flees, turning her back on him and disappearing into the endless mass of people, like an illusion, a hallucination, a memory of things that never were.

His wife and children are waiting for him at home.


	11. Lust's Footsteps (or, a long homunculi-centric AU with Sloth/Lust, Gluttony/Lust, Gluttony/Envy)

_Trisha Elric steps into the house gratefully, trying to force her vision clear and to keep from collapsing right here on the stone floor. There’s a little pain medicine in the cabinet and she concentrates so that maybe she’ll be able to reach it, but then the aching in her heart is back, pulsing with ferocity, the taste of cinnamon from the muffin she has just eaten still fresh in her mouth. It is an unwelcome taste, though, because of the sickening in her stomach that she knows is coming, and she’s unsure if when the queasiness comes she’ll be able to hold the muffin in. A sudden surge of fire throughout the muscles in her left shoulder, draining down into the elbow and the wrist and her fingertips, so that she doesn’t know if she can make herself move them anymore, and there are crickets chirping monotonously outside as the world spins around her once more in a nauseating ballet dance. Maybe she should have gotten a doctor, but it would’ve cost so much money, and there would be none left for treats for the boys, like oranges, because they all love oranges - even Hohenheim did, and that might be why Trisha herself treasures them. Explosive pain, so intense that the lights from the window are flashing bright white around her and there are spots in the corners of her vision. Such pain in her muscles - her chest is tightening more and more and more and she has to admit that it hurts - that somehow the pain has canceled itself out, and it’s peaceful, and maybe if she sleeps it’ll be better in the morning, she thinks, closing her eyes. And then the sinking feeling in her stomach intensifies to something worse than horrific as she realizes that she forgot to buy oranges for Edward and Alphonse - if she dies now how will they support themselves? - and maybe she’s throwing up._

 

-

Sloth tries to act nonchalant, but she isn’t fooling even herself. Still her heart is racing and there is pain hidden beneath her eyes, so much that she almost forgets to dye them green. Not trusting herself at all, she has to duck into the women’s room to make sure that the color has actually changed.

When she gets back out into the hallway she nods at a few of the lieutenants, who salute her in return.

Pride looks up at her as she enters the office. “Is something wrong, Ms. Douglas?”

“I ran into the Fullmetal Alchemist and his brother at the market,” she replies shortly, even though that isn’t really the truth.

“The market?” Pride asks, lifting his eyebrows inquisitively.

“Wrath was hungry.” It’s true. There are crunching noises coming from somewhere inside of her chest. Sloth winces, hoping that the child isn’t covering her with steak remnants.

Pride looks at her, and narrows his eyes – at least, the one eye she can see. “I’ve advised you to stay away from them. You don’t want to follow in Lust’s footsteps, do you? It wouldn’t be very good for any of us if your memories began to come back now.”

“Yes.” Her eyes are downcast at the truth in the statement. She can’t let on that they are coming back, now, or at least the one. _Explosive pain, so intense that the lights from the window are flashing bright white around her and there are spots in the corners of her vision, and with a jolt she realizes that she forgot to buy oranges for Edward and Alphonse, and maybe she’s throwing up._ Sloth clutches the bag she is carrying to her side, so that Pride will not see what is inside. He doesn’t ask, and she sighs and sits down in her desk, placing the bag carefully underneath the desk, where it won’t be visible but still easily accessible. 

She busies herself with paperwork for a while, and then the phone rings. Sloth recognizes the voice immediately - Lust. She looks quickly up at Pride, who is not even looking her way. Something tells her that it would be better if she didn’t tell him about this call.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I knew I could trust you,” the homunculus spits, but somehow her voice sounds undeniably human. Sloth is immediately envious, and glances over at Pride again. He is still busy.

“With what?” she asks, keeping her voice professional. Lust snorts on the other end.

“He’s dead, and I never cared about him, but now they all have something against me. Even you.” Her voice is still thin and vulnerable.

“Not me.” Sloth finds the need to say. It’s different now, now that she remembers. She doesn’t know if she has the courage to kill Edward anymore, and there is something pulling at her heart when she thinks of Lust’s suffering.

“Good. Meet me at the graveyard in an hour, then, and don’t tell the others if you value the Fullmetal boy’s life.” Lust says, laughing, and there’s a sudden click. 

If you value the Fullmetal boy’s life, Lust had said. And the words leave Sloth wondering if it’s as obvious in her as it is in Lust. Self-consciously, she pushes the bag further under her desk, and goes back to her paperwork.

-

_When Nathaniel Chauncey awakens, there are leeches on his skin, and he shakes from the cold._

__

__

“Nat?” It’s Mother, and she looks, maybe, sad. She’s shaking, a little bit, too. Nat peers over at her and blinks. Her greying hair is pulled back loosely in a bun and there are little tired lines underneath her eyes. If he were able to pull his voice from his throat, he would ask what’s wrong.

“Gods, Nat. You’re alive. You’re still alive. These doctors work miracles.” Her voice is shaky too, and weak. 

“I’m alive.” Nat repeats, without smiling. He feels very restless, like there are bugs crawling under his skin, so he sits up and something tugs, and a woman who he didn’t know was in the room motions him back down. Not before he’s seen his reflection in the mirror, though. Stretched purple skin, face littered with cuts, neck black and swollen, a monster of a man.

What are you doing here? You don’t live here! Get out, please go away! He’d like to say the words, but his voice is stuck again, and he only coughs instead.

“There, there. Just lie back down, now.” She turns back to Mother. “I’m afraid he doesn’t have much longer.”

He complies easily. There’s a clump of black hair falling into his eyes, and when he tugs on it more follows. He shakes again and isn’t sure if it’s from the cold. Something’s wrong.

“Isn’t there something? He’s barely thirty years old, for God’s sake, and I know he isn’t bright, but my Gregory only just passed away and he’s all I have left!”

The woman smiles at her grimly as another nurse brings him some colorless soup and feeds it to him with a spoon. It tastes acidic and bare, and the chicken looks powdery, soft, and grey, like old soap. He doesn’t touch it, just sips at the broth, coughing. 

He can’t stop the cough as it grazes his throat and Mother looks at him worriedly. He wishes that she would cheer up, because her smile would make him feel just a little bit less lost.

“They only usually last less’n a day,” the first nurse confides to Mother, “It’s really a miracle he’s lasted this long. Three days now, was it?”

Mother nods weakly. She doesn’t look at Nat, who has given up on the tasteless soup and is lying back down. Maybe she doesn’t like him anymore. Nat feels like he is going to cry.

“That’s lucky. Maybe there’s hope for him after all. Say, there’s an alchemist what lives down the street.” The nurse is still whispering, seeing the lost hope in Mother’s eyes. “I’ll just go and fetch him.”

_Nat closes his eyes, and shivers for the last time._

 

-

 

“So it’s happened to you, too.” Lust says, once Sloth arrives. Gluttony stares at both of them, sucking on one of his fingers hungrily.

Sloth narrows her eyes. “What makes you think that?”

“Then what’s in the bag?” Lust asks, smirking, and Sloth clutches the object defensively with her petite hands. Gluttony looks at it too, but it doesn’t move or wriggle or bleed and he loses interest quickly.

“I’m hungry, Lust,” Gluttony whines, no longer able to keep quiet. Lust sends him a glare and goes back to Sloth.

"I know it’s happened. Have you remembered about Master yet?” It’s an annoyed voice, but with a hint of something else, something that Gluttony can’t recognize. Lust drifts her fingers over Sloth’s cheek and chin as she speaks, without cutting into the woman. Sloth fidgets at the tone, but still stands straight. 

“No.”

Lust is smiling again. “Good,” she says, and suddenly Lust, his Lust, is grabbing Sloth and kissing her lips, and Sloth stumbles a little and drops the bag, and some of the contents spill out over the dry ground, and Gluttony can’t do anything but stand and stare. His eyes are watering like a hamster’s.

Then Lust has pulled back, and Sloth’s eyes are wide and purple and blinking, her black lips tinted with lipstick.

Gluttony is shaking a little bit, and he glares at Lust as best as he can. She doesn’t notice, preoccupied as she is with smirking at Sloth. Stretched purple skin, face littered with cuts, neck black and swollen, a monster, somebody no one could ever love.

Lust leans over slowly, picking something off the ground and examining it. “Oranges. Why oranges, Sloth?”

She looks straight into Sloth’s eyes. “You don’t need those memories anymore. I’ll give you a better use for oranges.”

She bites into the orange fruit, and with a funny little smile kisses Sloth again.

“I hate oranges!” And before anyone notices, Gluttony is running off as fast as he can.

-

 

Lust and Sloth are still sitting in the graveyard, though it’s almost noon and the sun is beating down on them full force. 

“Gluttony is the only true homunculus left.” Lust says shortly, “And even I don’t know where he came from. There’s a chance it will never happen to him.”

Sloth nods at the logic. “But what about Pride? I don’t think he remembers.”

Lust snorts again. “Even if he doesn’t remember, he’s fallen weakness to it all the same. He’s married. We’re getting weak, like real humans, Sloth. It would’ve sickened me before.” Her voice is still soft, and she traces patterns in the sandy dirt with one of her claws as she talks.

“Then Gluttony is our only hope.”

“You’re right. He will be the one to kill the Fullmetal boy, and get the Philosopher’s stone for us.” Lust says, leaning back on one of the gravestones. Sloth sits down on the one next to her.

Lust looks at Sloth out of the corner of her eye, and sees the younger woman wince.

“Isn’t there - do we have to kill him?”

“Yes.” she says, staring into Sloth’s eyes. “Don’t you understand? It’s our destiny.”

She leans over to kiss Sloth again, to make it all easier for her, but the woman scoots away.

“I can’t kill my son.”

“But you won’t be the one doing it, will you?” Lust says, voice icy cold with twisted logic. She gets up and brushes the dirt off of her black dress. “Now come on. Let’s find Gluttony. I don’t like him wandering off by himself.”

Lust holds her body tall and slim and straight, and looks back only once as she walks off into the forest. Her violet pools of eyes have regained their power, and her black smile widens as she stretches her claws once, then draws them back into her fingers.

Behind her, she can hear Wrath is emerging out of Sloth. Lust doesn’t have to turn back to know that they aren’t following her.

She’ll kill that Fullmetal kid herself, if she has to. 

_A scarred man that can’t even look at her without seeing the impostor, who will do anything in his power to deny her the few desires that are in her reach. Crimson bloody eyes that pull back in disgust as they reach her, sometimes flickering in and out of hope and love before he gets a grip on himself and remembers that she isn’t herself. Lying on the ground, torn and bleeding and limbless and suddenly unloved, for creating this black hole in her heart._

 

Lust is tired of being ignored. She is going to be taken seriously this time, once and for all.

-

Pride’s office is empty for most of the day, so the appearance of his secretary at a little past noon is a rare event indeed.

“Where have you been?” he asks her, and she looks up at him unblinking, eyes oddly shaken and subdued.

She doesn’t reply. Pride takes this as a bad sign, and his gaze drifts down to her left hand. She is carrying a bag, oddly shaped and stained with mud. Her strong eyes meet his and, slowly, she shifts the bag away from his sight.

“Answer me.”

“With Lust.” she replies.

Lust? This can not be good. “Give me that.” he says, glaring and pointing to the bag.

And for a second, her glare is steel and their eyes meet, well-matched. He can see the answer, set in stone, a resounding no beaten into her sharp eyes and tense muscles.

Yet he knows she will give him the package, and she does. That’s life, after all.

“Oranges?” Pride asks, as he peers inside of the bag. “A strange choice. I didn’t know Wrath was fond of fruits. Or maybe you bought them for yourself?” 

There’s something different about Sloth, that intensity in her gaze. Her hands are still securely behind her back, and Pride thinks he sees her slipping something under her jacket.

“I’m attempting to feed Wrath a more well-balanced diet,” she says, and the words aren’t soft but prickly, tearing up his questions and challenging him to do something about it, anything.

She sits down and Pride comes over to her desk, speaking in a harsh whisper in case any spies are in this room. “What did you and Lust talk about?”

Sloth isn’t even looking at him anymore. “There aren’t many true homunculi left anymore.”

“What?” This doesn’t make sense. “Aren’t you all true, save for Lust?”

Sloth is sitting in her chair, now, hands folded across her lap. He can feel her smile, and somehow it frightens him. This isn’t right - she is his secretary, not the other way around. She’s the youngest homunculus, and already transformed into a conniving, manipulating little bastard like Lust herself?

She isn’t answering, just staring ahead with blank eyes. Pride glares at her for letting her mind wander, and then sits back down in his desk. He’ll deal with Sloth once he has had a rest, because if her memories are coming back too, there is going to be a great deal of trouble.

-

_It’s all wind and cold and pain and overwhelming hoofbeats and his leg skimming across the ground and everything moving up and down and somebody screaming as he tries to make his mind work, gripping the left stirrup with one hand and the other reaching towards the ground. Curled sweaty fingers, pulling up again - if only he could lift himself back onto the horse - and then something hard brushes into his cheek, a tree branch, maybe, knocking him off balance, and he feels blood against his skin, a leaf stinging in his eye. And he feels his hand slipping again, then there’s his brother Roy running towards him, silent but with screaming, hopeless eyes. Reaching out a hand to him, and he looks down and sees his torn leg, bloody calf muscles spilling out, but can barely feel it, can’t believe that it’s his. And he tries to touch Roy with his hand, but it’s a long stretch and the one on the stirrup is slipping, slipping, and Roy is yelling and moving forward, and he slips too, falling to the ground, and the hooves reach his brother’s hand first, crushing his palm down into the ground, and the screams worsen. He can feel the horse’s hot breath above his ear, and he calls out to Roy because he loves Roy, and then blackness._

There's a click.

-  
Pride awakens to the world with a strikingly clear sense of reality, and the barrel of a gun pointed at his face.

He looks up further than the gun and sees two determined eyes that he knows well, brown hair pooling over the woman’s face, which carries a familiar authoritative expression. Sloth.

“I’m holding you hostage. Don’t move - especially not to take that patch off your eye,” she says, in her normal tone of voice.

This is what memories to do people, Pride thinks, immediately realizing that he himself has remembered something, too. It doesn’t make sense - homunculi aren’t supposed to have memories. But there’s a more important matter at hand, first.

He smiles. “Ms. Douglas, what exactly are you trying to do, and why?” He is a homunculus, and therefore can’t die, so her efforts are futile.

“You ordered the Rockbells to be murdered.”

-

Gluttony doesn’t want Lust to find him, so he runs to the only place he knows Lust won’t look. To someone who scares him, who disgusts him, to someone who is their friend and who is their enemy.

Envy, sitting by a charred fire pit, looks up, and Gluttony sinks back into the shadows. His stomach growls. 

Envy gets up, smoothing his skirt and placing his left hand on his hip. “Hey, I know you’re there.”

Gluttony cowers, but takes a step forward. “I’m hiding from Lust.”

The other homunculus smirks down at him, and suddenly his shape changes, curvaceous and feminine with long dark curls. “Really? Then scram.”

Gluttony stares for a second, and he knows that because this isn’t really Lust, that this Lust wasn’t kissing Sloth, that this Lust is different. This isn’t really Lust, so he has a chance. He takes a step forward, and Lust raises her arm as if she’s going to hit him, and Gluttony chooses right then to wrap his arms around the different Lust.

Her arm falls limply to her side as he kisses her. 

-

Sloth stares at Pride, who hasn’t moved an inch yet. The hand which is holding the gun isn’t shaking at all, which surprises even Sloth.

Pride isn’t smiling any more. “You’re right, and you know why. The Rockbells were healing casualties on both sides.”

“Sara was my friend!” Now her hand is shaking, and she can’t stop it. “You had no right-”

“This was eight years ago, Ms. Douglas. You weren't even alive then." Pride’s words are mocking her, and injure something deep inside of her.

She clenches the gun harder. “I was alive.”

“That wasn’t you.” Pride glares, and before Sloth even knows what is going on he moves his arm and knocks the gun from her hand. “It’s just a memory that isn’t yours.”

“Then she was alive,” Sloth says, “And right now, she’s a little bit mad about it.” 

Sloth feels like Lust, now. This is something Lust would say, not her, and she feels like she’s drowning in the words. Turning an arm into water, she reaches down and grabs the gun from the floor, pointing it again at Pride. That’s something Lust can’t do, turn into water.

“Let me use the Philosopher’s Stone first, when we get it, or I’ll tell them all about you, about what you are.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Sloth spins around to see Colonel Mustang staring at her with his deep black eyes.

-

Envy knows it’s wrong to think it, but Gluttony is, well, attractive. Not in the way that, say, Greed was attractive, because Gluttony’s outward appearance isn’t anything spectacular. It’s in the way he holds his body, the expressions on his face, confusion and fear and sometimes malicious anger. It’s the way he peers up at Envy now, small blank eyes still open and vulnerable. He’s attractive, in a way that makes Envy want to do something stupid like hold him, and Envy’s not sure what to make of that. But then, sometimes Envy would relish tearing Gluttony to pieces, and he’s not sure what to make of that either.

Greed has had several women before, and quite a few men as well. But he’s only a homunculus. Envy doubts it was in Greed’s nature to do any more than sleep with them. He doesn’t think it’s right for a homunculus to love someone, isn’t even sure if love is what he feels for Gluttony. Now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t really want to sleep with Gluttony either. If he were human, Envy would just kill him and forget about it, but Gluttony is a homunculus and so he has to do something drastic.

So he lets Gluttony kiss him, kiss him while he looks like Lust. There’s a sudden jolt of pain through his mouth as Envy realizes that part of his tongue was just bitten off, damn it! And then Gluttony pulls backwards with a wavering smile, watching him, and Envy changes back, and smirks at Gluttony, who is quivering again. He tests his tongue slightly - fixed.

“Don’t be afraid of me. I won’t hurt you.” Envy says, reaching out and caressing Gluttony’s shoulder. Gluttony looks up at him, and there’s that expression again, the one that makes him want to melt.

He stops himself when he realizes that he’s smiling, because it wouldn’t be right to smile at Gluttony. Instead, he kisses him again.

Gluttony tastes overwhelmingly of blood, spices, and something a little like rotting chocolate mixed with fried fish. He is sweet and sour and like nobody else that Envy has ever kissed (although, granted, he doesn’t normally go around kissing people).

And then Gluttony pulls away from him and the warmth is gone. Envy opens his eyes to find that Gluttony is running, escaping back into the forest without looking back.

He looks up, and suddenly understands - Lust is standing behind him, smirking spitefully.

There is a little soft piece of flesh left in his mouth, and Envy chews it contemplatively as he turns to face her.

-

Pride looks past the gun that is pointed at his face, and sees Colonel Mustang walking towards him, black hair combed and parted.

“Put that down, this instant, Ms. Douglas.... if that’s even your real name.” Colonel Mustang says, easily, holding his hand up threateningly. The array on his glove blazes red.

Sloth looks at him and then drops the gun, no emotion shown on her face. Colonel Mustang walks past her, shoving her out of the way as he steps up to Pride’s desk. Lieutenant Hawkeye steps out of the doorway behind him, holding Sloth at gunpoint.

“Are you all right?” Colonel Mustang asks, one eye still pinned on Sloth.

Pride nods. “Yes, I’m fine. I don’t know what Ms. Douglas was attempting, but I’m afraid she may be a spy.”

“That’s not it. I have come to suspect that your secretary is a homunculus.”

Pride doesn’t gasp at the words, just nods, his face suddenly very serious. This might take a lot of explaining. “You’re right. She told me a few minutes ago, before she began to threaten me. It seems that one of these awful creatures called homunculi is a shape shifter. Ms. Douglas wanted to kill me so that he could take on my shape, and in this way the homunculi would infiltrate the military.”

Mustang is looking at him suspiciously, but he salutes all the same, and Pride smiles. “I will see to it myself that this homunculus is arrested and properly dealt with, Fuhrer, Your Excellency.”

“You have to remember what we are dealing with, Colonel,” Pride says, “If one homunculus has already made its way into the military without anyone noticing, there must be more. I will personally assist you in dealing with my secretary.”

He glances at Sloth, in the corner, who is giving him a death glare reminiscent of Lust’s. There was a time when she would have right now been looking at the floor. A time when she wouldn’t have ever held a gun to his face, a time where he wouldn’t have remembered falling off a horse, Roy’s silent screams.

Colonel Mustang is still standing at attention in front of him - Colonel Roy Mustang, that is. Pride starts.

Maybe working with the colonel isn’t such a bad idea after all, Pride thinks. Maybe Colonel Mustang would finally open up to him. Besides, what would be wrong with learning a little about his own past? He’ll have to be careful, of course - not let out that they were once brothers - but he is the Fuhrer, after all. There is little that he can’t do.

“This will be a very important mission, Brigadier General Mustang.” Pride says slowly, relishing the surprised smile that surfaces on Mustang’s face.

With Sloth safely out of the picture, everything will fall into place.

-

“Why don’t you go after him?” Lust asks Envy, quietly, who is standing next to her looking angry and lost. “That’s why you kissed him, isn’t it? To stall him for me?”

Envy grunts at her from the back of his throat, and Lust shakes her head. “Honestly. _Men_. You can't even answer a simple question. I’ll chase him myself, if you two are suddenly friends.”

“I’m not his friend,” Envy says with a smirk, standing to his full height. “But I’m not exactly your friend, either. Go after him yourself.”

Lust looks at him, as if changing the filter on her camera. It’s true that Envy has never really been her friend, but they were at least allies, at one time. Now it seems that he is laughing at her. He’s challenging her to survive, friendless and half-human, tormented as she is with her memories. They don’t come in words anymore, just flashes of feelings and pictures and soft whispered words, a ghostlike touch on her cheek as the Ishbalite leans over and kisses her. Bursts of too-bright sunlight, and he is there too, holding her hand and laughing. And the younger one is standing below, and she can’t stop staring at him even as she holds his brother’s hand, and his brother kisses her again and everything is warm and wonderful and she’s melting like butter in the hot sun.

Lust has never considered herself as being Ishbalian before, but there is something bittersweet in the warm sunlight that calls to her still. If she were to run as fast as she could, stumbling over sand and rocks, even if she were to reach that sunlight and hold it in her hands, nothing would come of it. She wouldn’t be human and Scar would be dead, and that would ruin it all. There’s still something feral in her that urges her to run away, and she wants to run from it all, just run and run and run until she dies. But she isn’t human and Scar is dead, and so she chains herself back to reality. If she were human, the hatred wouldn’t choke her, but as it is there is no reason for her to be human anymore. She’ll turn herself human out of spite and envy, if anything, because there could be someone else, if not Scar or Scar’s brother or even Sloth. If she were human, there could be anyone, anyone.

So she looks down condescendingly at Envy and saunters off to find Gluttony, hoping that he hasn’t eaten anyone without her permission. He has been acting bothersome like that lately, and Lust wishes that whatever he is going through will pass.

After all, Gluttony is the only one left.

-

Fear is pulsating throughout his body, throughout all of his nerves and his skin, covered in goosebumps and sweating profoundly. He can’t tell if he’s burning or freezing or something in between, and the feeling chafes his skin and his eyes and he’s crying, and someone is laughing at him because he’s crying, and he cries even more, cries out for his mother who will never come. He feels wrong, his body is all wrong, twisted, grotesque, then it all comes together, two pink limbs, and something burns on his foot and he is shaking, making little choked noises from his throat because he can’t help it, he doesn’t know what’s going on and he’s afraid, and he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, and someone is screaming who might be him. 

And then he’s fine, and he lays back on the ground and stretches, looks up at the sky, silent and peaceful, and the boy smiles, and maybe laughs a little bit because all is right with the world, and he doesn’t even know why.

 

-

The water that is Sloth is sloshing around madly, making angry waves against his ears. Wrath hops up, choking a little bit, gasping for breath even though he doesn’t need the air. He can feel Sloth’s body walking, unevenly and slowly, and jolting forwards every once in a while. The three lumpy oranges that are underneath his feet roll around, tripping him.

This is boring. He can’t see or move or speak, so he concentrates on the voices behind him, Pride’s and someone else’s. They speak crisply and shortly, words matching the militaristic rhythm of their feet on the floor, which sounds hard and concrete.

“Where are we taking it?” 

“The prison just outside of Central.” Pride responds, sounding strict yet tired. 

“Won’t it be able to escape? It isn’t human.” The other voice says, disdainfully, and for a second the rhythm of his feet doesn’t seem to match Pride’s. Then it’s back, fixed again. Sloth’s feet don’t quite match, either, shuffling softly to their own beat.

“We’ll have a large number of guards.” A hint of warning in Pride’s voice.

They don’t speak again for a while, so Wrath listens to their feet again, a percussion band made just for him. Sloth’s water has lost its energy and is standing still again, but it’s still above  
Wrath’s head and his feet are getting tired standing on tiptoe. He eases the arches of his feet back down and takes a large gulp of the water, drowning himself. His throat tightens and Wrath prepares for the sensation again, over and over. 

Drowning is actually kind of fun, once he gets used to it. It beats just sitting here, anyway.

“I’m afraid I haven’t had much time to speak to you before, Brigadier General. So tell me about yourself.”

“There isn’t much to say. I’m an alchemist.”

“I read in your dossier that you lived in Southern for a while.” Pride’s tone has turned conversational, while the other man’s is still stiff and formal.

Wrath gulps down a little more water and keeps listening. Sloth’s footsteps are getting softer and softer, and the ones next to her louder and louder. Something clinks metallically, and it echoes like the footsteps.

“That’s right. I lived there with my family for a few years when I was younger. I like it better here in East.” This man’s voice really does sound strained. Wrath thinks that he must be very tired.

“Your family? Are you an only child, or did you have any brothers or sisters?” 

The man takes his time in answering, and when he finally speaks it is obvious that he wants to keep the conversation short. “My only brother died when I was young.”

“That must have been hard on you.”

“I barely knew him at all, so it doesn’t affect me much.”

“I had a brother, too, but we were seperated when I was too young to remember him. I suppose we’re in the same sort of predicament here.” Pride must be smiling now, Wrath thinks, because there is something upbeat in his voice.

Sloth coughs above his head, loud and grating, and the water sloshes again. He hears a door opening somewhere ahead of him, the thunderous engine of a car.

Pride and his human friend are silent during the drive, so Wrath concentrates on the sound of the car, silent but loud in the still, dark, night. It’s a relaxing noise, wheels sliding over rough pavement, evenly, something that is maybe metal shaking every few minutes like a maraca. Wrath sits down inside of Sloth, and the quiet noise lulls him to sleep.

-

Lust hates Gluttony, and it hurts him like she has just pierced him in the heart with one of her claws.

Maybe he’s just a homunculus, doesn’t know anything about the world or life or the truth. All he knows is himself, except for flickering recollections of a woman who acted like Lust, better than Lust, who wasn’t Lust. A wrinkled hand on his hand, a smile, caring and gentle. But that isn’t real. Nothing is real, and the fact makes him feel tiny, vulnerable, afraid. He misses Lust.

For once in his life, Gluttony isn’t that hungry, and this is such a strange feeling that he whimpers. Still running, still hearing his footsteps pulsing below him.

He shouldn’t have answered Lust when she asked him what was wrong. She didn’t even look at him and everything in her said hate and disgust. He is just a homunculus.

When Gluttony answered, slowly, his heart racing, her eyes had been whole, purple, unchangeably beautiful. They would have tasted like grapes, Gluttony thinks, sweet, liquid grapes, a little bit sour. Lust herself would taste bloody, acidic, spicy, better than a human.

His stomach growls, and Lust isn’t here. Maybe she isn’t coming back.

Then something stabs him and Gluttony feels himself bleeding, falls forward onto the muddy ground. He has held it back until now, but he is on the ground and bleeding, and he loves Lust, and the tears come suddenly.

Lust is standing over him, Lust! He whispers her name, over and over until the words blend together, turning into soft velvet puddles.

“Idiot.” she says, and Gluttony cowers below her. Her whole body is pulling away from him, contemptuous eyes drawing back in disgust.

“Just find somebody else to love,” she says, looking away. “Not me.”

Lust glances down at the ground, and Gluttony thinks that her face is tender and sad, and he wishes he knew how to comfort her.

Something tugs at his heart, and Gluttony is reminded of his growling stomach. Maybe her eyes would taste like cucumbers. They were sure to be crunchier than human eyes. When she was the other Lust, the Envy Lust, her mouth had tasted of human. Human is a good taste, a familiar taste. Gluttony would like to kiss the real Lust, or maybe eat her internal organs one by one, slowly and delicately, if it wouldn’t hurt her. He isn’t sure which. She would probably taste a little bit human, a little bit homunculus. It would be a good taste.

“Lust, I’m hungry.”

Lust looks up and the tender gaze has been replaced with one of malice.

“Starve.”

Gluttony stares at her, and tries to disappear.

-

Hohenheim smiles, a soft warm hand caressing her cheek, and she sighs as he laces his other hand through her hair and places a scratchy kiss on her cheek. She laughs and kisses him, her hands on his sturdy back, and this can’t be anything less than love.  
Edward is small and pink and wrinkled, feeling light and fragile in her warm arms. His face is puckered in a high-pitched cry that sounds just like a kitten, and she lifts his face to hers and kisses his cheek. “Shh, little Edward, not so loud, you’ll wake your daddy up.” She rocks him, opening the door to step outside, under the stars, even though winter’s chill is still thick in the air, and in a minute he stops crying. When the baby smiles up at her, his smile is genuine, and his warmth spreads though her whole body as she closes the door to go back inside, back to bed, still gently swaying him in her arms.  
It’s raining outside, but indoors Hohenheim is lighting a fire which flickers around the room, creating peaceful shadows. Alphonse’s pure blue eyes are open, and he stares around the room, taking everything in, sucking on his thumb wordlessly. Edward is snuggled into the chair next to her, mostly asleep but sometimes fidgeting a little, moving his arm a little to scratch at his nose, and it’s still raining outside and she’s intensely glad for the rain to have created something so wonderful.

 

-

It’s peaceful here in the jail cell, somehow, even though it feels like treason to think this. The rain beats down outside, and the sound of the flowing water is familiar and comforatable, a memory from when she was human, when she loved Hohenheim and was the mother of two children. It doesn’t matter that her hands and feet are chained together or that the room she is standing in is covered in alchemic arrays - those will be easy enough to escape. If she can’t get rid of the guards, she should be able to find a way out the window, or through the pipes, marked easily by the water leaking in through the cracking walls.

When she gets out, Sloth will go to find Hohenheim. She still loves him, even though she isn’t Trisha anymore, and he has got to understand. He will understand. There are oranges in a bag inside of her, and she didn’t give them up to anybody, even when Lust attempted to taint their innocence, when Pride put their very essence on trial. Oranges are sacred; they belong to Hohenheim, Edward, Alphonse, Trisha. Even Sloth can barely call them hers.

The guard who is pacing by her cell turns his back.

“You can come out now, Wrath, if you promise to kill the man in the black uniform.”

Wrath materializes next to her, grinning. His black hair is wet now, tangled and matted. “Promise. That man?”

Sloth nods weakly, turning her head to watch the rain falling down relentlessly outside.


	12. Cold (or, Ed and Al gen and angst)

It's snowing when Edward wakes up, falling down outside of the window of his train car and fogging up the window. Chilled, cool, air leaking through, and he shivers, moves over a little bit to get away from the cold.

Hard metal, colder than the outside air.

"Brother, what's wrong?" A frenzied voice, and Alphonse shifts beside him, leans over and looks into Ed's sleepy eyes.

"Nothing," he breathes, reaching over and drawing a transmutation circle onto the foggy window. His hand comes away cold but he's used to it by now, and erases the circle, clears the glass so he can see outside.

Everything is white and endless, as if he is in the middle of nowhere, as if he is still dreaming.

"Do you think we're almost there?" Alphonse asks him, peering outside, too, and Edward shakes his head back and forth once. Zipping his jacket up to try to escape the cold, but he shivers anyway.

Alphonse studies him as he leans back in his seat.

"Is it cold, brother?" Words spoken tentatively, as if his brother feels he shouldn't be asking this.

"What?" Edward responds, and then he remembers, and curses himself for ever forgetting – for creating this problem in the first place, for being stupid enough to cause his little brother this much pain. For unwittingly separating him from everyone else and making him something else, different. 

"Yeah. It's cold," he says, with a grin, and hopes that Al can't see through it. "But that's not a problem."

And the window has fogged over again. This time Edward leaves it that way, as the train bumps along, all too silent. It's as if they're the only ones here, the only ones anywhere. They would never know it, now.

Alone, but not alone.

He yawns, takes his watch out of his pocket and blinks at it. "We're gonna be here a few more hours, Al. It's only 4:30."

"Huh? But it's so dark here." Alphonse says, leaning over to look at the watch himself, and Edward draws back from him almost unconsciously. 

"What's wrong, brother?"

I don't want to be so close to you, that's all. "You're cold," he says instead, because it's the first thing he can think of, and Alphonse shudders once in response, looks away.

"I forgot," he says softly, and Ed cringes at the tone in his voice. "I-"

"Never mind."

Alphonse looks away now, pointedly, and even though that had been Edward's plan he can't draw his eyes away from his brother. He watches as Al gets up, slowly, and moves to the other side of the room.

And then it's as if he's really alone, for the first time.

And maybe, he thinks, it's for the best.


	13. Down to Nothing (or, gen with light Roy/Havoc)

When Roy glances up, he can see Havoc's face in the mirror; he is concentrating too hard, paying too much attention to the road. His muscles are tensed and his eyes small and secure and focused, no longer lost in the slow-moving scenery outside. Clenching the steering wheel with both hands, no part of him could possibly drift away.

They turn the corner and Havoc looks back at Roy; immediately, consciously, he pulls on the mask, and his lips tremble into what Roy assumes is supposed to be a laid-back smile.

The sky is finally darkening, and Roy is glad – it has been red too long. 

"Are you sure you don't want to stop?" Havoc asks, and Roy does not move his gaze over to the yellow house, does not look at the one solitary window that light is shining through.

"Yes, I'm sure," he says, above the sound of the engine, and Havoc puts his foot down on the exhaust. His eyes follow the house as they leave, and Roy notices the man's hand subtly digging into the steering wheel.

It has hit Havoc hardest of all.

It's strange, Roy thinks, to say that, but it's true. When they got the news his eyes had widened and the cigarette had dropped from his mouth; for once, his face had been completely readable, clear, devastated. 

It's only a subtle difference, really, but for someone who knows him well (like Roy) it's incredibly easy to see. 

The first sign was his voice (deeper than normal, tremulous) and then his words, succinct, laconic, hopeless. And First Lieutenant Jean Havoc has always had hope. Even if sometimes he contradicted himself, Roy has never seen him like this before.

Because no matter what happened to him, he had always smiled and assured that he was fine – Roy would never have continued to steal the man's girlfriends if he knew that it would really hurt him. 

"Lieutenant," he breathes, and then regrets it as Havoc's eyes meet his own – because what could Roy possibly say to break the curse?

"He was always laughing," Havoc says, quietly, chewing on the tip of his cigarette. "Why would anyone want to kill a guy like that?"

The interior of the car is dark now, except for a patch of white light falling over half of Havoc's face. His eyes and skin look all too thin and frail.

"You used to laugh, too," Roy says, sitting up straighter against the seat and frowning. I don't like to see you like this.

Havoc glances at him, opening his mouth to speak, and Roy sees something that could be anger flicker across his face. "I don't see why you won't just go talk to her."

Roy sighs. "Lieutenant, you of all people should know I have better things to do." 

Havoc frowns, obviously suspicious, and all of his face comes into the streak of light. "I didn't think you were one to lie, sir."

Roy smirks slightly. "I'm not. Why would I go comfort his wife when there's someone else sitting right in front of me who needs my attention first?"

There is a long silence, and Havoc blinks, surprised, and then looks back at him quietly. Roy doesn't look down.

Havoc turns the corner slowly, his gaze lingering on Hughes' house – and then Roy smiles at him, and the house disappears from view.


	14. Collapse (or, Havoc/Roy)

The smell of a snowy winter's night is absolutely unique, and can't be replaced by anything else. Like cigarette smoke, Roy thinks, as he reaches into his pocket for his key, shivering slightly.The sky is blue-purple, ethereal, trees black and naked against the sky, and he wants to get indoors, to leave this all behind him. 

To stop looking for a car that will never come, to stop hoping for anything other than this – for a day without bleak cloudy skies, snow smelling of exhaust. And that smell, too, reminds him of cigarettes.

The sound of a motor behind him, and he doesn't turn around, keeps fumbling with the key. It won't turn.

And even his jacket isn't thick enough to keep out the cold - it sneaks its way inside his very soul, essence. It is days like these that he hates, despises. The color white isn't always pure.

The car behind him slows down and Roy has to stop himself from turning around, from peering into the window, just to check.

It isn't him and it never will be, never.

A bird chirps somewhere to his left, oddly out of place in this silent wasteland.

"Hey," and the voice itself makes him turn, makes him look. He hears the clink of his key on cement before he knows that he has dropped it.

"Lieutanant," Roy says, and he hopes the uncharacteristic shaking in his voice will be mistaken for mere shivers. 

Havoc is grinning out at him as he rolls the window down. "You need a ride?"

"This is my house, lieutanant," Roy says, and the scent of cigarrettes is already drifting towards him, a smell he would rather leave behind him with the scent of the wind and snow. A smell that would disappear as soon as he slammed the door behind him. And he wants to leave it, to turn his key in the lock and open the door, to leave it all behind him. 

"Why would I need a ride?"

Havoc shrugs nonchalantly, and Roy can see the cigarette dangling loosely from his mouth. "I was just asking."

"Well, then," the man continues, with an almost mischeivious tone to his voice, "I'll just be leaving."

Havoc is halfway down the street when Roy realizes that the man has taken his keys.


	15. Untitled Trisha gen and angst

Trisha shivers once, shielding her eyes against the wind, and frowns slightly. The trees are shaking a little, and the clouds overhead are thick and grey. “Edward! Alphonse!” There may be a storm soon, and she would feel better if the children were inside.

It’s all too open, lonesome, without him (not that she thinks about him very much, of course – he’ll be home soon, so there is no reason for her thoughts to linger on him), a strange chilled emptiness to the world that he has left behind. 

When she looks over, it is still there.

It makes her uneasy, this black form beside the tree – standing, unafraid of the wind – and were she not alone she would approach it. If Hohenheim were here –

And it is no different, really, since she will not be alone for long. It’s a woman, Trisha notices with relief, tentatively stepping closer to the tree – “Hello?”

The woman’s smile is not altogether even, and she looks all too poised to have so many wrinkles littering her face. 

“You’d be Trisha?” Her voice is contemptuous and young, and when she looks up there is something off-center and dangerous about her eyes.

“Yes,” she replies, with a smile – people from the city must always be unnervingly eccentric like this. After all, Sara’s husband was from Central, and look how he acted! “You’ve met my neighbor Mrs. Rockbell, then?”

A drop of water hits her left forearm and the woman nods slowly, practically unshielded from the rain. She blinks once but doesn’t move.

“It’s going to storm,” Trisha says, and the woman meets her gaze and holds it. “Would you like to come inside? I was just about to make some soup...” 

She glances over her shoulder for the boys, but then shakes her head; they’ll come when they’re ready.

The woman nods again and the expression on her face is something that could be defined as a smile – could, but isn’t quite.

Dante twists her face into a smirk as soon as Trisha's gaze has left her – poor fool, she wants to say, you won’t need to cook anymore. It is lucky to have a homunculus like Envy under her command – the spread of disease is no harder to control than the reins of a horse.

The skies are blue; it has not stormed today.


End file.
